


rampant, combatant

by Poose, seven_hells (Poose)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Fantasy, M/M, Prisoner of War, Sexual Fantasy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/seven_hells





	rampant, combatant

His wrists hurt. Sores had blistered under the manacles, and just as one began to heal another would spring up to replace it. Jaime could scarce feel his own fingers most of the time. His arse had gone numb weeks ago, like to be covered in blisters as well, or worse, gone flat, by the time he found his feet again. He could almost bear even the iron collar that chafed around his neck, but the realization that he grew less lovely every second that he rotted drove Jaime mad.   
  
Trained as a warrior, Jaime knew that men kept in confinement were meant to talk or sing to themselves to stave off delirium. No one answered his questions or responded to his japes, neither the men who brought him his meals, nor the page who emptied his chamber pot. It was scarce for lack of trying. Jaime used to be able to get a rise out of any man, even the King himself. Yet the caged lion was no threat like this, and his words went unnoticed. Only the boy would ever speak to him, the green boy full of piss and vinegar. He came in the night, always in the night, with the monstrous wolf by his side, and each night after he had left and taken the slavering beast with him, Jaime Lannister would enact his revenge.   
  
It took many forms. One involved single combat, where the Warrior would favor him, and when he had slain the young wolf his bannermen would give over to honor and release him back to Cersei. He would take off his head a thousand times behind closed eyes, and the thought sustained him. A Lannister attack would do as well, though Jaime could scarce lead the van in his chains.  Another dream saw his father sending trained scouts and spies who would slay his wardens, unchain him, and take their own hostages besides.   
  
A quick and easy death was for combat. In captivity, all well knew that the lion liked to play with its prey a good long while. Nor would he keep the boy in a stinking pit with an iron chain around his neck. If it were Robb Stark who was Jaime Lannister's prisoner of war, he would be imprisoned at a castle in a private chamber with one key only. Jaime would hold the key.   
  
When young Stark sneered at him, his direwolf growling at his side, Jaime reveled in the thought of opening his jugular and watching him die, red and slow.   
  
If the tables were turned, Jaime Lannister would have Robb Stark in irons, a collar clamped round his pale neck. That would work well indeed. Or he would tie him to the bedposts, legs spread wide until they went numb, and that would be the start of his punishment. The boy needed reprimand; he had risen too high, too quickly. Well, Jaime Lannister would be happy enough to put him in his place.   
  
Jaime's hands were manacled tightly. If he could have spared a hand to touch himself he would have thought of his sister, her golden hair swaying in front of her bare breasts, but his hands remained in irons, and so he thought of killing Robb Stark and hurting Robb Stark and taming Robb Stark.   
  
The wolf was scarce more than a wildling dog. Any dog could be made to heel, Jaime knew. And what would bring Robb Stark to heel? Short snaps of pain would start him down the right path. A collar, perhaps, with a spike on the inside. A leash that Jaime could yank on. An iron ball around his ankle, a gag of hemp for his mouth. Ropes of every color to tie him with: to the bed, or to himself. Jaime pictured it every possible way -- on his back, on his knees, on all fours, as Jaime doled out pain, which was his chief talent -- after death, of course,   
  
When Robb Stark came to him in the daytime, Jaime thought he was a hallucination. Never before had he seen him in the light. His face was blood splattered, fresh from a battle. Blood lust, Jaime saw, with envy and recognition. The lion tore at his chains and Jaime Lannister gnashed his teeth in frustration. 

He talked to the lean green boy before him. He said his thoughts, cursed the man."You should wear the ropes, Stark," he coughed, "On your legs, in your mouth, around your cock, between the cheeks of your arse. It would be a good look for you." 

Robb Stark scrunched up his blooded face at the words. A nod from his master and the direwolf padded forward, snarling. It leapt at his face and Jaime, brave Jaime, shrank from it. When the young wolf left the cage where they kept him chained, it was with a pointed glance, aimed right below the Kingslayer's belt buckle. Perhaps he had gotten a rise out of the boy after all. 


End file.
